


And A Hardboiled Egg

by icarus_chained



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Havelock is a scary man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study of Havelock Vetinari from a young child up as far as Unseen Academicals. Mentions of most of the major Ankh-Morpork players, especially Vimes. Takes off from Havelock's musings on the nature of evil in Unseen Academicals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And A Hardboiled Egg

He'd been young, when he first understood it. Young, when he'd first looked upon the world, and understood the nature of evil. He'd seen it. Mother and children, feasting on mother and children. He had seen evil. So simple. Elemental. Pervasive. _Built in_. The world was a roiling sea of evil, every action causing pain, every person, every being, a bad one. He had looked out on the world, a _child_ , and seen its evil.

And he had thought, that small boy with scraped knees, looking at children gorging themselves on blood. He'd thought, if there is a supreme being, then it is our duty to be his moral superior. He'd thought, it's up to us.

He'd thought, _I can do better_.

***

He'd trained to be an assassin, of course. That was what young gentlemen _did_. And, of course, his aunt had insisted. Any other but her, perhaps he might have refused. But it was her, and he did not. Though he did ... draw a line. In his training. It was not enough to simply _say_ he had been there. Not enough to simply attend, for the prestige of the school, as other young gentleman did. That was not the _point_. If one was going to train as an assassin, then one should be _good_ at it.

There were any number of useful skills inherent in being a good assassin, after all. Things ... that he would later need.

He never did throw away anything with the potential to be useful.

***

He was there for the Glorious Twenty Fifth of May. Before, too. He had watched his aunt ply her trade, bring one regime to a close, cycle in the next. Playing games. She was good at what she did, his aunt. He learned a lot, from her.

Not all. He aimed to be better, himself. He aimed to be so much better.

He'd learned from more than her, though. That week, those nights. That battle. He learned from more than her. The writhing sea of evil, whipped to storming, devouring itself. He'd watched. His eye for the unique, for the important. He'd watched. He'd _seen_.

He saw an evil man fall. As evil men do. He saw the turn of a city against the corruption that ruled it, saw it turn as elementally, as _fundamentally_ , as once long ago a mother and children had turned on another mother, another child. He saw evil rise, and rule, and fall. He had walked through the hall, and the sea of blackness parted before him, evil not because they said _yes_ , but because they did not say _no_ , watched them as they let him pass, watched them as they let him raise his hand. Watched Winder fall. Not even to his weapon. Not even to him. To _fear_. He watched that.

And he watched another man. A man, a legend. A man his aunt said could read the streets. He'd watched that man gather them together, all those little people, all those grubbing little people just out for themselves, never willing to say no. He'd watched that man throw up some paltry barricades, throw together some paltry rules, a _law_ , a peace. He'd watched that man make people stand up and say, simply, and without anger, _no_. For a little while, just for one turning of the wheel. Just to hold on to some little thing. He'd watched that man say 'no'. He'd watched the rest of them follow him.

He had watched that man fall, too. A good man, fallen as easily as an evil one. He watched it happen. And he'd watched something else. While they took up the lilac. While they fought around his fallen body. While they _stood_ , and _kept standing_ , even when their leader had fallen. He'd watched hope self-perpetuate, even as evil fell apart around it.

He'd watched. And then he'd acted. Taken the lilac. Fought. He'd watched. And then he'd _done_

Truth! Justice! Freedom! Reasonably Priced Love! And a hardboiled egg!

Doable. Perhaps not in that order. The egg first, he'd thought. Keel had gotten that right. The egg first. But the others ... doable. Oh yes.

It can be done. And I can do it _better_.

***

The city came to him. The city first. His microcosm. His universe. A world, a universe, for the supreme being. He, he would be content with the city. Too much ambition is a dangerous thing, after all. Everything in moderation. First, the city. Then ... then we shall see.

He broke it first, of course. A tyrant, the thinking man's tyrant. He broke it, very carefully. Not as the others had before him. Not the _people_ , not the way Winder had, not the way Snapcase had. Not like the line before them, back to the beginning. He was something _new_. He was something _better_. Or he was going to be.

But he broke them first. Broke the Watch, raised the Guilds. Law from the bottom, not the top. Because it had to be them. He'd known that, from the start. You cannot rule from the top. You have to start at the bottom, at the most lowly, the most filthy, the most lawless. You start there. And from there, you build. All that blackness, all that petty evil. You turn it against itself. You take away the option for disinterest. You take away the option to just _let things happen_. It's too easy to blame the tyrant. Too easy to obey orders, and just let things happen. You have to make them _think_. You have to make them _act_. Give them something they _want_ , wave power in front of their faces, and lure them upward.

He broke the Watch. Too many times the tools of those in power, turned against the people. People like Keel, they were too rare. So he broke them. And in their place, he raised the lowly. The criminal. The lawless. He took the Thieves, and _made them the law_. He placed the responsibility on them. Made them police _themselves_. He removed as many edifices of central power as feasibly possible. He gave the little people all the power they could wish, levered them carefully against each other, checked them, so carefully, but never personally. Never _himself_. Checked against each other, power against each other, a careful weaving, power decentralised and kept in balance. He made the city _run itself_.

And it worked. The first step. A hardboiled egg. A roiling sea of evil, all bad people, but now, all bad people _equally responsible_. And him, still, at its center. Unobtrusive. Ever-present. Fundamental. Evil was ubiquitous, after all. It was part of _everything_ , inescapable. Evil was fundamental.

And now, so was he.

***

He waited. For a long time, for years. Breaking it carefully, then holding it in balance. A delicate act, but necessary. He couldn't force the next step. He didn't have to. He'd seen it, already. He'd seen all the signs. Keel's apprentice. An _honest man_. All it takes is one. All you need is one man to throw up a barricade, one man to uphold the law, one man to say _no_. Tyrant is as tyrant does. But _heroes_ , oh, the world needs heroes. The tyrant, to plan, to work, to make sure the garbage gets taken out. The heroes, to make it _matter_.

He saw the plan to overthrow him. He saw all of them. He'd planned for them, years ago. Made comfortable his cell, against the kind of mind that would overthrow him. Not escape routes. Never those. Never trust any ruler who puts his faith in tunnels and bunkers and escape routes. Chances are, his heart isn't in the job.

Havelock's heart has _always_ been in the job.

It happened, as it was always going to. Really, people were so predictable. Well. Not the dragon, perhaps. The dragon was somewhat surprising. But the dragon was only a tool, really. The mind behind it ... oh, he knew that mind. And every mind of its ilk. He'd planned for that kind of mind.

And the other, Vimes? Planned. Yes. But perhaps ... as much hoped. He couldn't force it. He couldn't force the next step. You can't force a man to stand. You can't force order over chaos, good over evil. You can't force something that isn't there.

But if you set the stage _just right_ , maybe you don't _have_ to.

And, it's odd, but it's Vimes who thinks to ask him. Vimes who's the first to think to ask. He'd explained, of course. Vimes had saved his life, after all. With _that sword_. And Vimes had been so confused, so hopeful and raw and determined, such a _good man_ , giddy and shocked and clinging to what was right, despite it all. He'd _had_ to explain. He might have to Keel, if he'd had the chance, but he hadn't. And Vimes ... made of the same stuff. He'd known that, even if just then he hadn't known quite how much.

So he explained. About the darkness, and the evil, and the badness inherent in the universe. Not the rest. Not himself. But ... what he saw. What he faced. How _hopeless_ it was. How pointless. Because evil was everywhere. Evil was everything. He'd explained that to Vimes, knowing Vimes would never, _could_ never, believe it. Because Vimes clung to hope, and to good, and somehow, like Keel, made people follow after.

"You believe that, sir?" Vimes had asked him. Of course he did. "But you get out of bed every morning, sir?" Of course he did. "I'd just like to know _why_ , sir."

Because I can do better. Watch me, Vimes. I can _do better_.

***

Carrot had been ... unplanned for. Carrot, the true king, and there was _proof_ , something there should never have been, and it had been unplanned for. There had not been a king in so long. Any number of Patricians, running the city into the dust, and allowed to do so, but no _King_. While the throne rotted gently out from under them, and no-one ever knew. Possibly he should have realised, then. In the stories, the true king only comes when all hope is lost. When all expectation is lost. When people _stop believing_ , and need to be reminded. That's when the king comes back.

He'd never thought the king would show up because of _him_ , though. An oversight. He'd never thought it would be because he said, a king isn't _needed_. He should have. He should have known the Powers That Be would not allow that. Never allow that. He should have known Carrot would come.

But Carrot ... He smiles to think of that. Carrot wasn't a king. Carrot was a _policeman_. And Carrot thought that kings, like policemen, should only be there when they're needed. Carrot thought that people like Vimes, like the Watch, all the little people ... they should be the ones to decide. Carrot, like no king Havelock had ever expected, believed, as he did, that you cannot rule from the top. Only the bottom. Carrot agreed, and acted accordingly. 

There had been a warning, of course. Gentle. Carrot had put a sword through the last man to threaten the peace, through the man and the stone, before anyone even knew he was there. The King, the policeman, _protected_. When he was needed. Against whoever he was needed. That was ... understood. That was accepted. If this didn't work. If Havelock stepped out of line. If he failed. There was a price, and that was understood.

But he wasn't going to. He wasn't going to fail. Because he had looked, all those years ago, and he had seen what evil was, and he had known he could do it better. He had seen what good looked like, how frail it was, and he had seen how to make it stronger. Because the good need the bad to do the planning for them, because the universe was built around evil, because he had a moral duty to be _better_.

And he could make it work.

***

He raised them up, now. Everything he'd broken before. He raised it again. Vimes first. The Watch first. Because it was different, now. Because he'd made a city where anyone, literally anyone, could have, hold and use power. He'd made a city where the playing field was, if not equal, then at least better balanced. He'd made a city where the Watch could grow in power, and _still be checked_. He'd taken power away, long enough to level the board some little bit. And now, he could hand it back. He'd given them the hardboiled egg, the reasonably priced love. Now, something a little more abstract. Now, something a little more ... shining.

To Vimes, first, who held Justice like a candle. Vimes, who hated authority with a vibrant passion, Vimes, who believed no single man had the right to hold power, Vimes, who would fight for the little man to the last breath in his body. Vimes, who could do all that, and at the same time _be_ power. Be authority. Vimes, who could look on him, and spit on him, and save his life, and destroy it. Vimes, who carried the darkness, all the sea of evil, inside him. Vimes, who _kept it in_ , who held the Law like a lantern, and kept the darkness locked inside. Until it was useful. Until it was needed.

They were all bad people, you see. Evil exists in everyone. And the good people need the bad ones, to plan, to think, to use. So what you need, what you _really_ need, is not a bright and glorious and nonexistant hero, goodness personified, to lure people out of the dark. What you need isn't kings. Not for day to day life.

What you need is a bad man, an evil man, with all his darkness inside him, who _knows_ , who fights, who wants justice and light and goodness so bad he can taste it. A man to stand beside them, all those little hopeless evils, and _lead_ them out. Someone to stand up and make them say _no_. Someone to show them Justice is not the antithesis of evil, but a part of it. The flipside, the Guarding Dark. Someone to show them that.

Someone to show them, too, that he himself was not the be all and end all. Someone to remind them that even he, Havelock Vetinari, the Patrician, the _power_ , could be countermanded. Lead around. Vimes the one to save his life. Vimes the one to arrest him for treason. Vimes the one to arrest, well, anyone. Everyone. Armies. Vimes to defy gods, and rulers, and anyone who took his fancy, anyone who didn't _stand up_ , anyone who wasn't _right_. Vimes, to remind them all, what Justice was. Vimes, to remind them that it applied to _everyone_.

Someone, too, to remind _him_. In case he forgot. Someone to keep him too in check.

"It occurs to me," Drumnott had said. "That if Vimes did not exist, you would have had to make him."

Really, though. He rather thought he _had_.

***

But it couldn't be _just_ Vimes. There was the hardboiled egg, first. And reasonably priced love. Those were relatively easy. Now, there was Justice. But there had been more demanded. Truth. There must be truth, too. To balance them out, to show justice where it was needed, to make sure people _knew_. Rumour was a wonderful thing, but it wasn't _official_. It wasn't sanctioned. It wasn't ... _ideal_.

The printing press was, in his defense, somewhat of a surprise. Oh, not that it _existed_. There had been lots of those. But that it _survived_. That it was more than magic, more than gods. That it was _real_. It had been, he does admit, a surprise.

But oh, but oh, the _possibilities_. And Mr de Worde, he would not be bribed. He would not be ruled. He would print _the truth_.

Or at least, as much of it as he knew. But small steps. Self-perpetuating. One little step, at a time.

The Truth has got its boots on. Now all that's needed is to give it space to run.

***

Stability, then. Because the eggs don't just appear. Because you have to make them keep coming. Because the world is a sea of darkness, and all the bright ideals in it won't keep you fed. Because the city needs to run itself, needs to be _able_ to run itself. No matter what happens. And for that, he needed people. The right kind of people. People like Drumnott, and Vimes, and de Worde, and von Lipwig. He needed money to shine like justice. Needed the truth to have a place to run. He needed the city to _work_ , and keep working.

His Undertaking, they called it. But really, it wasn't. It was _theirs_. Their Undertaking. They just didn't know it yet. Not to worry. In so many ways, perhaps that was better.

The tyrant is a useful thing to blame, when he'd handed away all the responsibility years before. A nice, conspicuous target, so that no-one notices until far too late that the power isn't in the throne. It's where it always should have been. In the people.

***

And the last. The one they held above all others. Freedom. The one people died for, and lived for, or at least told themselves they did. The one they _hungered_ for, even when it was the last thing in the world they wanted. Freedom. Too much like anarchy. Too much in opposition. Straining.

But he'd seen that, too. All those years ago, on the Glorious Twenty Fifth of May. He'd seen it. He'd understood it. Not in fallen barricades. Not in armies, and units, and the destruction of civil power. Not in the fall of cities, or the fall of evil men. Not there.

In the fall of _good_ ones. That's where he'd seen freedom. When Keel fell. That's when he understood.

Freedom wasn't anarchy and the overthrow of power. Freedom was what happened when a good man fell, and those behind him _took up his swords_. Not out of duty, but out of loyalty. By _choice_.

Freedom was what happened when you gave the little man power, and he used it not only for himself. Freedom was what happened when slaves _bought themselves_. When words in the heart could not be taken. When the truth got its boots on. When Justice held back the dark. When armies could be made to stand aside, not with a sword, but with a _word_. Freedom was when the city _worked_ , not because you _made_ it, but because you _allowed_ it. Freedom was what happened when you had balance, and people fought to defend it. Freedom was what happened when you had power, but always in check. When anyone could stand up to anyone. When everyone could matter.

Freedom was what happened when the head falls, and the body _keeps going_. Freedom was what happened when you looked out on all the sea of darkness, and put together some raft of rules before it, and it _worked_. Freedom was when hope could self-perpetuate, even in the face of evil.

_"Something like, perhaps, 'They Did The Job They Had To Do'?"_

_"How _dare_ you? How dare you! At this time. In this place. They did the job they didn't have to do, and they died doing it, and you can't give them anything. Do you understand? They fought for those who'd been abandoned, they fought for one another, and they were betrayed. Men like them always are."_

Men like them always are. But men like them still stood. Men like them still fought. And they were betrayed. And he couldn't give them anything.

Except ... a world, or as much of one as he could make, where the next man to stand would not be betrayed. A world where he could be _rewarded_ , not with statues, not with parades, but with things that _mattered_. With power, when you could trust him not to abuse it. With responsibility, when you could trust him to accept it. Where you could build the city, and make it _work_ , and bring it to the point where you could fall, where the head could fall, and it would _keep going_. What they fought for. What they _died_ for. He could make that real. He could make that matter. 

Not for them. Because they were dead, and it had mattered enough to die for. But for the rest. For all that sea of evil. For all those people who bowed under evil, and let it pass, and never said 'no'. For all those people he could pull, slowly but surely, out of the water, and build them a raft that wouldn't sink. A little raft of rules and laws and power and checks and balances and eggs, a _city_ , that wouldn't fall.

All those people he could teach, so slowly, without them ever realising it, to stand up.

Evil was when you could reach out, and pull the strings. Freedom was when you could stand still, and trust them to pull _themselves_.

And he could make that happen. Not the fullness of it. Not the totality. Impossible, when the darkness lurked in every heart. But _enough_. A beginning. He could give them that. He could try. Where all the gods had failed, he could try.

He could make it work.

***

"One day I was a young boy ... when I saw a mother otter with her cubs. Even as I watched, the mother otter dived into the water and came up with a plump salmon, which she subdued ... As she ate it, while of course it was still alive, the body split and pink roes spilled out, much to the delight of the baby otters. Mother and children dining on mother and children. And that is when I first learned about evil. It is built into the very nature of the universe. Every world spins in pain. If there is any kind of supreme being, I told myself, it is up to all of us to become his moral superior."

He'd thought, I can do _better_. Not a world. He was, after all, only a man, and ambitions, no matter how morally vivid, should be held in some sort of check. Always, always. There must be some sort of balance. So only a city. Only _his_ city. To do better in. To _be_ better in. He'd thought, so long ago, _I can do better_.

And damn him, he'd _tried_.


End file.
